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“Aida will make her own choices.” There’s finality in the words. “And I didn’t come here to discuss my sister’s future.”
“No, of course not. Though perhaps I will have that discussion with her myself, at some other time. Since she’s her own woman, I’m sure you wouldn’t object to her speaking with me?”
I can feel the muscle in my jaw tick. The bastard is trying to back me into a corner, and I refuse to allow it.”
“Of course not,” I tell him smoothly, cutting a piece off of one of my meatballs. “If it’s her choice.”
“Of course.” Fontana’s gaze holds mine, waiting for me to flinch.
I don’t let him see it.
There’s no way in hell that I’ll let Fontana arrange anything for Aida, or threaten her into thinking that she has to allow it. But I trust my sister to come to me if there are problems. She knows I’d never let anything happen to her.
The rest of the dinner passes almost pleasantly, if compared to the beginning. By the time we go back out to the town car, I can feel the tension vibrating off of Lorenzo.
All I want is to talk to Emma.
“I don’t know if that was a smart idea,” Lorenzo grinds out as we slide into the car, my hand already reaching into my pocket for my phone. I feel as if I’m trembling inwardly with anger, with the desire to go back into the restaurant and throttle Fontana for even daring to say Aida’s name, much less underhandedly threatening my little sister. “He all but offered you the other half of LA on a silver platter. And you told him no? Why?”
“We don’t need to be locked in more tightly with Fontana. I’m trying to get us out from under Sicily’s thumb, not more tightly bound to them. You heard what he said about Aida.”
Quickly, as I wait for Lorenzo to respond, I type a message to Emma.Can I see you tonight?
“I agree with you that Aida shouldn’t be forced into a marriage she doesn’t want. But he was just testing your boundaries.Especiallyif you help him with Altiere, he’ll have no reason to continue pressing the matter. I’m sure as long as you arrange a decent marriage for Aida eventually—” Lorenzo breaks off, frowning. “Is whoever you’re talking to really that important right now?”
I’m looking at the text Emma just sent—Sorry, working late. Probably better to wait until this weekend,and wondering how exactly I’m going to manage until then. I want to see her. To hold her. To anchor myself in her and feel the weight and pressure of what’s on my shoulders slide away, just for a little while.
“I’m not making any decisions for Aida.” I set my phone down, but Lorenzo is still looking at it suspiciously.
“I saw the pictures of you at the gala, you know,” he says calmly, leaning back against his seat. “With your date. Your tattoo artist, right? It wasn’t hard to look her name up and find out who she is.”
I feel every muscle in my body tense. “I’m going to let that go, because we’re brothers,” I say quietly. “But leave Emma out of whatever it is that you want to say to me. She has no part in this.”
“Exactly.” Lorenzo pins me with a sharp look. “She has no part inanyof this. Say what you want about allowing Aida to make her own choices, but you need to think about yours too, Dante.”
“I think about it all the time. And I’m not forcing Aida into anything.”
“You don’t have to marry some heiress, like I’m sure Fontana would prefer you to,” Lorenzo presses, ignoring my comment about our sister. “But a tattoo artist who lives in south LA is out of the question, Dante. You know it is. She would never fit in our world. More than likely, she wouldn’t want to. You need to let this go.”
“And you need to mind your own business.” But some of the sting is taken out of the words by the fact that I know he’s not entirely wrong. Emmadoesn’tbelong here. But that’s the appeal. Since I took over our family, I’ve been trying to push and pull us in a direction that takes us away from what men like Fontana want. From the expectations that he places on me and my brothers and, most especially, my sister.
Lorenzo goes quiet, and I know what he’s thinking. I don’t ask, because I don’t want to hear him say it out loud.
The moment I’m back in my penthouse, alone, I dial Emma’s number. I have no idea if she’s home yet or not, but I want to hear her voice.
“Dante.” She answers with my name, and the throb of heat that it sends through me makes me ache. “I’m still at work.”
“I just wanted to talk to you for a minute. Are you sure you’re not free tonight?”
She lets out a breath, and I can almost see her running her hand through her hair. I’ve started to learn her movements. Her quirks. The little things that make her who she is.
I want to learn more of them.Allof them. I want to know everything about her, to never let her go, to solve every problem that she has so that I never have to see the pained look in her eyes again that I saw that night on the beach.
But she won’t let me, and she won’t tell me why.
“It’s better if we wait until this weekend. I’ll come to your place for the appointment, and we can—” she pauses, her voice hitching ever so slightly. “We can talk then.”
Talk. As if I won’t have her naked either before or after—or both. As if either one of us can keep our hands off of the other.
